


Whiskey, Gin, and Other Eye Openers

by khasael



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Audio Format: M4B, Audio Format: MP3, Community: pod-together, Format: Streaming, M/M, Podfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-08
Updated: 2011-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 04:19:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A forger and a point man walk into a bar... (A fic in 5 parts)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey, Gin, and Other Eye Openers

**Author's Note:**

> A collaboration between author Khasael and podficcer Zhenger, for the first pod_together challenge at Live Journal and Dreamwidth. Writing something specifically to be recorded as podfic really changes how you attack things, and gives you new appreciation for the term "collaboration". All in all, a lovely experience.
> 
> Download this as an [MP3](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2011podfic/Inception-Whisky,%20Gin,%20and%20Other%20Eye-Openers%20by%20khasael%20and%20zhenger_inc.mp3) or an [M4B](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2011podfic/Inception-Whisky,%20Gin,%20and%20Other%20Eye-Openers%20by%20khasael%20and%20zhenger_inc.m4b)

  
**I. The Flaming Torch, San Francisco, California, USA**   


Eames hadn't known the point man for the current job long, but he had managed to work out three important details:

One: He was competent. This was a man with a mind for this sort of work.

Two: He was as uptight as they came. He'd never seen anyone so serious, in absolutely every situation.

Three: He was _exceptionally_ fun to fluster.

Their little team had been working together approximately a week when Cobb sent Eames out with the point man. Arthur. Eames hadn't worked with Cobb in two years or so, but it seemed once Cobb found a point man he liked, he stuck with him. Eames had seen Arthur chatting up Cobb's lovely wife the night before, and they seemed old friends.

Arthur hadn't been pleased about the assignment, which meant it thrilled Eames. "What do you mean, we're going together?"

"It's the logical assignment, isn't it?" Cobb asked, flipping open his mobile and reading whatever was there. "You're point man. He's the forger. You need research on the mark, and he needs to know how to best represent someone the mark knows."

"Well, yeah, I know that," Arthur said sarcastically, and Eames tried not to smirk. "But why _there_?"

Cobb snapped his mobile closed. "Just go. I have my own work to do."

Two hours later, Eames was already inside the club Cobb had mentioned, chatting up the barman, getting a feel for the sort of clientele this place saw. If he knew what kind of bloke he'd be forging, he could get a head start on a general persona, crafting the details onto it later.

When Arthur walked in, Eames tried not to choke on his scotch and soda. Instead of the tailored suits Arthur normally wore, he sported tight jeans and a silky black shirt, the top two buttons undone. His hair was slicked back in a way that accented his cheekbones. Whatever he had learned about their mark, it apparently included the information that he was after someone of a particular type.

There was an authoritative aura about Arthur, though if you looked hard enough, you might be able to tell this wasn't exactly his scene. Eames made no effort to move from his spot. They were both supposed to be working, and that did not necessarily mean they acknowledged each other. As a general rule, the less their mark saw them as acquaintances, the better. When Arthur brushed off three consecutive advances, Eames could only grin and hope their mark showed up soon, before Arthur turned even surlier.

The fourth person to seek Arthur out wore a necklace Eames recognized from across the room. MacFalder. Their mark. MacFalder wound his way towards Arthur, murmuring to another bloke next to him. Eames locked eyes on the companion.

He had a feeling this was it. This was who he'd forge first.

He watched as the two men approached Arthur, caught the way their mark's head tilted back as he laughed heartily. Arthur gave the mark a smile that looked a little strained. Eames wished he could hear what they were saying. He needed to hear the other man— _his_ mark's—voice. And so, working carefully, he moved through the crowd to get closer.

It took quite a while to get across the club, brushing off a few admirers of his own, and by the time he did, things looked to be going downhill. MacFalder's friend was making coy little faces, and MacFalder himself was running his hand up and down Arthur's arm. Arthur appeared to be hideously uncomfortable.

If this were for anything other than a job, Eames would have let it go and see how it played out. But good as Arthur was as a point man, Eames wasn't certain he could keep his cool for long. Arthur didn't do casual touching. It was just one of those things you noticed about someone when you forged—their perceived little bubble of personal space. Arthur's was large and very tough. And both these men were violating the boundaries.

Eames slid up behind Arthur silently. "There you are, darling," he murmured into Arthur's ear as he wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist. Arthur's entire body went rigid. Eames would have given anything to see his face right then. "Oh, no need to worry," he said smoothly, giving their mark a large smile. "We've already agreed a bit of flirting is perfectly fine, haven't we? But tonight's to be low key. You know you have to be up early for work tomorrow."

Both MacFalder and his friend were giving Eames wary looks, and he knew that everything depended on his next few words. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm afraid we're not going to be much in the way of night owls this evening. But please, join us for drinks in one of the booths upstairs?" He gestured with his head to the glass-walled booths visible from the dance floor and bar. "We'd both love to get to know you two. There are always other nights with later curfews."

MacFalder looked at his companion, who nodded. Their mark threw Arthur a predatory look before grinning at Eames. "It would be our pleasure."

Eames let their mark and his friend lead them up the stairs, jerking Arthur by the hand. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Arthur hissed through clenched teeth.

Eames gave Arthur a cheeky grin. "Giving you access to MacFalder, and me access to his friend."

Arthur glared at him for a moment. "I swear to god, if we don't pull off this extraction, I am going to kill you for tonight."

"Now now, darling," Eames said, trying his best to hold in a laugh. "Now's not the time for a lovers' quarrel."

If looks could kill, Eames would be on a slab in the morgue. That was all right, though. They were going to get what they had come for.

And Eames was going to get a bit more besides.

Arthur did make the job more entertaining.

 

  
**II. Sunset Bar and Grill, Los Angeles, California, USA**   


Of all the things he never expected to do, 'babysit Arthur' was on the top of Eames' list.

It wasn't long after the inception job, which helped to explain things. It was good to have some basis of understanding, because Arthur wasn't really a hell of a lot of help in this matter.

Eames had been lurking around Los Angeles for the last week, spending a bit of his salary, seeing the sights, and making the acquaintance of a few delightfully tanned and athletic men. He had spent more than one lazy afternoon lounging on a bench at the beach, watching surfers, joggers, volleyball players, and people zipping past on rollerblades. Nights were spent seeing films, trying new bars in the search for the ever-elusive well-mixed mojito (because honestly, if he saw one more bartender reach for that damned bottle of fake mint syrup, he was going to just walk out), and flirting with whomever presented themselves a likely target. And if he lifted a wallet here or there for fun, returning it by the end of the night, then what of it?

It was in his quest for a bar with decent food and a lack of blaringly loud live music, that he stumbled upon the point man, who was certainly not at his finest.

Eames sat at the bar and ordered something simple in a low voice. Just a beer for now. The mojito could wait. He cleared his throat as the barman walked away. "Arthur?"

The man on the stool swung around. It _was_ Arthur. "Eames? What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Doing what one normally does in a bar, Arthur dear: ordering a drink. The better question is, what are _you_ doing here?"

Arthur fixed him with a glare. He wasn't completely pissed, but he was far from sober. "None of your goddamned business."

"Ah. Drinking away your sorrows, I see. What's wrong? Pretty new architect reject your advances?" The barman placed his pint in front of him and Eames nodded acknowledgement.

"No."

"Hm." Eames took a sip of his pint. He could go for something to eat as well, and he contemplated asking for a menu as he looked Arthur up and down. "You look like hell, Arthur." He was still dressed impeccably, but there were dark shadows under his eyes, and his hair looked like he had been holding his head in his hands at odd intervals. He looked like a man who had been beating himself up for the better part of a week. "This have anything to do with the job?"

Arthur sighed deeply into his glass. "Fucking Cobb."

Well, that was a giant affirmative.

"Upset he's retired and gone off for something a bit more domestic?"

"No. I'm fucking angry I didn't see the complications. It took a twenty-year-old architecture student to see our biggest liability. I'd been in his dreams for years, and I didn't see it." He gestured for another drink. Eames wondered how many he'd had. "And then Fischer's fucking trained projections on top of it."

Eames raised his eyebrows. "You're still beating yourself up over that? We all made it out alive. Successful job done, checks cashed. I can see you're putting yours to use."

"You know what? Just shut the fuck up, Eames. Aren't you supposed to be in Tasmania right now?"

Eames shrugged. "Too cold this time of year. And as Mr. Saito was so generous with his payment, I've no need of that sad little job at the moment. I can wait until something better comes along."

"A new team to torture?" Arthur fixed him with a baleful look. "A different point man to hassle?"

"No, Arthur. That's only fun with you."

The barman set Arthur's drink down on a new coaster and looked at Eames. "You two buddies?"

"No, we are not fucking 'buddies', "Arthur growled, grabbing his glass and sloshing some of the drink over his hand. The barman pursed his lips.

Eames gave the man an easy smile. "He's right. We're simply coworkers. He's just not pleased with his last performance review."

The barman glared. "I don't care. What I want to know is, is he going to be any trouble?"

"No. But if it makes you feel any better, I'll take personal responsibility for him this evening."

"As long as someone does," the barman said, shaking his head. "He's done for the night. He's been sitting here longer than I've been at work."

"Right you are," Eames said, still striving for charming. He gripped Arthur's arm at the elbow. "Pull yourself together," he whispered sharply. "You're one of the best point men I've ever worked with. So you botched it. We all do it. I once forged someone and forgot which leg was the fake one."

Arthur swung around on his stool and stood. Eames held him by the shoulders when he threatened to fall over. "Don't try to make me feel better."

"Well, what should I do? Try and make you feel worse? Trust me, it's only fun giving you hell when you're up for taking it. This is no fun at all. It's like shooting a goldfish in a pint glass, with a bloody shotgun."

Arthur cracked a brief smile before his eyes went wide. "Eames. Call me a cab."

"All right, if you—" That was as far as he got before Arthur retched and clapped a hand over his mouth. Fuck. "Don't you even _think_ about it," he hissed. He rummaged around in his wallet, removed several notes, and tossed them onto the bar, ignoring the barman's shouts. He threw Arthur's arm around his shoulders and dragged him out.

They made it just through the double doors when Arthur wrenched himself away from Eames, bent over, and vomited onto the potted flowers outside. Eames sighed and waited for him to finish. "Bloody idiot," he muttered, handing Arthur his clean handkerchief. "Clean yourself up, and I'll get you back to the Marriott, situated with a waste bin, some water, and something for your head."

Arthur wiped at his mouth and stood, still looking wobbly. "How'd you know I was at the Marriott?"

Eames grinned and produced Arthur's pilfered electronic key-card. "How else?"

 

  
**III. Rest and Relaxation Bar, Tortola, British Virgin Islands**   


 

It was a warm night in Tortola, and though he usually didn't spend much time around Eames if he wasn't looking to be harassed, Arthur preferred his company over no company at all this evening.

It was the thrill of the completed job that put him in such a good mood. Things had gone ridiculously smoothly, information transferred to their client and money already wired into each of their accounts. Tomorrow they would split up, not one of them headed for the same country, and while Ariadne had decided to spend a little quality time with their new chemist, and the extractor had gone to find a woman to blow a bit of his money on, Arthur wasn't looking for anything more than a few drinks and some local ambience.

Eames had agreed, after a bit of prodding, which was odd. He never needed prodding. In fact, he had been acting strangely since they had arrived in Tortola. Perhaps it was the lack of casinos in the area--he was left with little else to do to entertain himself. Whatever the reason for his uneasiness, he trailed Arthur into the bar nearest their hotel and made a bee-line for a booth in the corner. "Why don't you order our drinks?" Eames muttered after an unsuccessful attempt to get Arthur to relocate somewhere else. "I'm just going to sit here. Back spasm. You understand."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Fine."

They were three drinks into the evening when Eames went suddenly pale. Arthur didn't even get to ask him what was wrong before a voice behind him screeched in anger. "It _is_ you!"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean," Eames said smoothly, and Arthur recognized that tone. A good forger didn't have many tells, but Arthur knew that particular timbre of Eames' voice. He knew _exactly_ what the woman behind Arthur meant.

"Like hell! You didn't honestly think I wouldn't know you, did you! You don't forget the man who not only cheated on you, and not only cheated on you with the man you're marrying, but who stole my best dress when he ran?"

Arthur had absolutely no words to describe what was playing out before him. He turned to get a look at this irate woman behind him, who didn't sound opposed to violence. He blinked. He recognized her.

She was tall and slender, with a few curves built in to give her an elegant look. Arthur could picture the bored little look on her face, if she wasn't so worked up. This was the woman Eames had forged during Cobb's Mr. Charles routine, standing here in slacks and a blouse instead of a black evening gown. There were subtle differences, but she was still undoubtedly the basis for Eames' presentation.

The woman called someone else over with a little shout, and a burly man with arms the size of Arthur's thighs lumbered over. Eames looked even less comfortable, though Arthur didn't miss the little flirtatious grin that flitted over his face. "Alejandro," Eames said warmly, and the guy went scarlet.

If he didn't mind seeing the forger reduced to a pulp, he could just sit back and let this unfold. But as they'd just completed a job that was less-than-strictly-legal, and very hard to explain to the authorities, Arthur thought it best to avoid law enforcement, hospitals, and an abundance of questions. He stood up and inserted himself into the space between Eames and the irate woman, while keeping a close eye on the man just behind her. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down."

Asking someone so upset to calm down almost never worked, and Arthur didn't really expect it to this time. But it did what he wanted, and redirected her rage toward him. "What the fuck do you have to do with this? You the guy he's screwing now, with some ignorant wife left at home?"

"No. But you're causing a scene." He already knew from her nametag that she was the bar's owner, so making a threat about alerting the management was pointless. "You don't want to lose customers, do you?"

"My customers are loyal, unlike the prick you're sitting with. And my husband can kick your ass. He played football in college."

Arthur grinned crookedly. He'd already sized the man up. He had size, and brute strength, but his movements weren't quick. He wouldn't be a match, in the end. Arthur had speed and years of specialized training, both defensive and offensive. He might have to take one punch, perhaps two, but he would still win the fight, and the result wouldn't be pretty. "I really doubt that." He flashed Eames a look over his shoulder, the message to sneak away once things got started clear, and Eames nodded. He could hold his own in a fight, but Arthur didn't want to risk him being tangled up in something when these people had prior knowledge of who he was—even if the identity they knew was most likely false.

He found Eames sitting in their room, lounged on the bed, nearly an hour later. Eames looked at him and laughed. "Didn't escape unscathed, I see."

Arthur touched the corner of his mouth. The bleeding had slowed, but it was still swelling. "I didn't figure I would. Really, it didn't take much to disarm him. I've yet to meet someone who played football in college who didn't have knee problems. And by the way, I recognized the woman. I thought you'd made that forgery up."

Eames smirked and raised his hand, displaying a washcloth wrapped around a baggie of ice. Arthur crossed the room and took it, resting it on his face gratefully. "Well, I _did_ make a few enhancements, as it were."

Arthur snorted. "I had noticed that. But the next time we're entering a bar where your ex—two of them, by the sound of things—works, just fucking say so. It's not worth the hassle of avoiding the police just for a few drinks." He shook his head. "Did you really steal her dress?"

Eames shrugged. "It was gorgeous."

Shaking his head, Arthur fell back onto his bed. "You never cease to amaze me, Eames."

Eames laughed softly. "Why thank you, Arthur. That is lovely to hear."

  
**IV. Brouwerij De Prael , Amsterdam**   


The thing about freelance work, Arthur mused as the waitress brought a fourth round of drinks, is that you were never entirely sure of the team's dynamics until you were already well-ensconced in the job itself.

The extractor was a push-over, some tiny little, soft-spoken, beaten-looking man who reminded Arthur of the King of Hearts from Disney's _Alice in Wonderland_. Their chemist was blonde, leggy, and an apparent ditz, until you got her talking about neurochemistry, or pissed her off and realized she wasn't the type afraid to let heads roll. Their architect was an old guy who looked like he couldn't draw a straight line without his fingers trembling, but who designed cities like it was as easy as breathing, and had a grip that could crush your hand. And the forger... Well...

The forger was Eames.

They had always had a tempestuous dynamic. From the first time they had worked together, Arthur got the feeling that Eames fucked with him just because he could. It was all about nearly getting him roped into that real-world foursome during their first joint job, or shoving him out of his chair at any available opportunity while they trained for the inception job, or sending Arthur into that damned hot yoga studio in Eames' last dream, so that he'd come out all hot and sweaty, his clothes stuck to him and hair a mess, or just making his life a little more difficult wherever he could. But since Arthur had saved Eames' ass at the bar after the last assignment together, things had changed. And damned if he could place exactly what the change was.

He was still pondering the change when Eames set down his glass on the table, not even using the coaster provided. "You have _got_ to be the only person in the history of the known universe who does not become more uninhibited and fun when they drink."

Arthur glared at him. "Some of us just have better control of ourselves than others." Eames opened his mouth with a little smirk, but Arthur cut him off. "And if you're going to make some crack about my 'control' when you found me after the inception job, just shut your mouth now. That was _one_ time I let myself get out of hand." He took a swallow of his own drink.

"But you could never really just let everything go and have fun, could you?"

There was a challenge in Eames' words, and though Arthur knew he was playing right into where Eames wanted him, he suddenly wanted to get the better of him. "What do you expect me to do? Strip down naked and dance on the table?"

Eames smirked. "Well, that would be interesting, I'll give you that, but they probably wouldn't let us keep drinking here if you try. No, I'm curious if you could ever break outside your comfort zone a bit."

"And what do you mean by that?"

"I wonder," Eames said slowly, "if you could keep your cool if I did this."

From underneath the table, Arthur felt Eames' foot find his calf and stroke it. Arthur snorted. "That's it?"

Eames pursed his lips. "Well, that's to start. What if I did this?" He slipped out of his side of the booth and next to Arthur.

Arthur could feel their legs pressed together from hip to knee. "So?" He wasn't quite as easy to ruffle as Eames might expect.

With a slow smile that showed he was up for a good challenge, Eames chuckled. "All right, so you're fine so far. But I bet I can find your breaking point."

With a sidelong glance, Arthur took another drink. "You're welcome to try."

Eames smiled and shifted himself even closer. Arthur looked down at Eames' hand on his knee and raised his eyebrows. Before the other man could smirk or feel victorious, Arthur put his hand on Eames' knee and slid his hand up his thigh. "Care to try again?"

It was satisfying to see Eames blush for once, but he recovered quickly enough.

"Oh, I don't know. I'm sure I'll think of something," he said softly, leaning in and tilting his face towards Arthur's.

Arthur didn't move away. When Eames didn't come any closer or back up, Arthur made up his mind. He would win this challenge. He leaned forward slowly until his lips found Eames. He could feel the other man's full lips warm and moist against his, and when Eames parted them slightly, Arthur slipped him a little tongue. After a moment, Eames leaned back in the booth, looking a little dazed.

They reached for their drinks at the same time. Arthur took a thoughtful swallow as he watched Eames do the same. "You know," he mused, as Eames drained his glass, "you act like you're the first man I've ever kissed."

When Eames coughed and spluttered, Arthur grinned. It looked like he'd won this challenge after all, even if it did open up a whole host of questions and unexpected thoughts.

  
**V. The Rusty Nail, Detroit, Michigan, USA**   


Eames had certainly had better days.

He'd woken up with a pain in his head that wouldn't leave and only got worse as the day got brighter. At work, he'd somehow wrenched his knee when he got into a shoving match with the extractor. He'd lost his umbrella on the train back to the hotel, his phone refused to connect his calls, he couldn't find his damned room key, and the desk attendant didn't answer the little bell, no matter how many times Eames rang it. And to top it off, all day long, Arthur had been giving him looks he couldn't read.

Eventually, he'd given up and limped his way to the dingy little bar down the road from the motel. He hadn't even had time to order when Arthur essentially fell onto the stool next to his. "You look like shit," Arthur said without preamble. "How's your head?"

Eames paused. "I don't remember telling you I had a headache."

"You didn't. But you've been squinting most of the day, wincing whenever anyone makes a loud noise, and you've taken a ridiculous amount of pain-killers."

"Well, points to you for being observant. Forgive me if I don't ready your prize right away."

Arthur just looked at him. Well, at least if his gaze _did_ bore a hole into Eames' head, it might relieve some of the pressure around his brain. "I've been looking for you for an hour. Why aren't you back at the motel?"

"I lost my key," Eames muttered, looking for the barman. "And the bloody desk clerk didn't respond when I rang the bell."

Arthur continued to stare. At any other time, Eames might enjoy the attention. But all it did now was frustrate him. He had been trying to get a read on Arthur since they both stepped into the empty little office building for this job two weeks ago. He'd failed utterly. And for someone who read other people in order to copy them for a living, that was shameful.

After a moment, Arthur cleared his throat. "Well, I could pick the lock if you want, but from the looks of our accommodations, the lock would probably crumble and we'd be stuck paying for it and answering a ton of questions while we're at it. Look, come back to my room. Take the bed; sleep off the headache."

"And what's in it for you?"

Arthur offered the faintest of smirks. "The rest of us won't have to deal with you like this two days in a row." When Eames didn't smile back, Arthur sobered. "Really," he murmured, placing a light hand on Eames' shoulder. "One round tonight, if you insist. But then you get some rest. This job hinges upon a successful forge, and you know it."

"Ah, so that's the reason you're so ready to sacrifice your bed tonight."

With a small shake of the head, Arthur stroked Eames' bicep with his thumb. "No. It's not. Not the only reason, anyway."

Eames furrowed his brow. "I'm sorry, this headache must be affecting me more than I realized. Did you just...?"

Arthur smiled softly. "Yeah. I did. I'm not an idiot, Eames. I know how you look at me. Let's just say I've done some thinking since the last time we worked together."

The barman finally arrived, but Eames waved him off. "I'm sorry, I don't think we'll be staying after all," he said. He looked at Arthur, still trying to process everything. He felt for the poker chip in his pocket. There was still that familiar, faint irregularity in the ridges that told him this was real. "Wouldn't you know," he said with a smile, "it seems that headache's nearly gone."

Arthur stood and gestured towards the door. "Good. Let's go. I'll buy you a round another time."

"Arthur," Eames murmured into his ear, "there's always the liquor store, if you want to stay in." When Arthur laughed, Eames shrugged. "Just a suggestion, you know."

"And one I'll take into consideration," Arthur promised, brushing his hand up against Eames'.

The night really _was_ looking up.


End file.
